Three Lives To Live
by kari2500
Summary: Sirius' death tears at Harry's heart and his hatred for Bellatrix Lestrange is only secondary to the feeling of wanting to become someone who is able to protect instead of be protected. What will Harry do when given the chance to live a new life?


A boy in a bed.

Tired, exhausted, depressed, none of those words began to describe Harry Potter's current mood. Caustic would be another word. Angry at Dumbledore, angry at the world, for betraying Sirius. Damn Dumbledore and his "death is the next greatest adventure" crap. Damn Bellatrix Black for killing the one man he loved as a parent. Orphaned once more, once again...and Voldemort to blame to…again! Was life really worth living for?

Harry peered out the window. Looking up toward the night sky. How easy  
it would be to join them. He hesitantly glanced down at the closed photo  
album. He knew what was inside. The pictures were ingrained in Harry's memory from the countless times he spent staring at their faces; wondering what life would be like if things were different. Now he had another person to add to that nonexistent list; Another agonizing what if?

Life was unfair. He knew this. He has known this since the day life took his parents away, but now it just seemed like a cruel joke. Why should he have everyone taken away from him when other kids got to live life without knowing the pain of death? Harry always thought he could handle whatever life threw at him, but this was just too much. This vast well of hatred was too much to control. He wanted to not only kill Bellatrix; he wanted her to feel every bit of pain he himself has had to endure. He wanted to slice her open slowly. To laugh at her helplessness as he dared her to mock him in her that baby voice she reserved just for him.

Harry was sick of people controlling his life. Fuck destiny. This is my life, not theirs!

He'll destroy Voldemort, but on his own terms.

Life wasn't fair, but it went both ways. Giver gives, Receiver receives. This time he would be the giver, before another person precious to him died. Voldemort, in the end, was merely a bean-pole old man whose one singular talent was deception. Deception of Death Eaters, but also of the public. For heaven's sake, a not even one year old boy had defeated him! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named indeed.

Harry's growl of mirth filled the room with an unpleasant intonation, a feeling of sickness. Even just hours after Sirius's death, it was apparent to the faculty members frantically listening to a wiretap of the troubled boy's room that Potter had changed. For the better or for the worse, who would know?

To say Dumbledore was worried would be a gross understatement. His plans were in ruin because that mutt had to go and get himself killed. Now Harry Potter, the savior of the wizarding world, the only one who is capable of defeating the most feared wizard since Grindelwald was no longer under his control. Harry was obviously furious with him, but maybe he could use this to his advantage. Harry was still a child after all. A child who has lived the majority of his life with abusive Guardians. Yes, Harry is indeed angry, but he was also vulnerable. All he needs is to be reminded of his place. A change in scenery would serve that purpose well. For the summer he will stay in the very house that drove his own godfather to his demise and if everything goes according to plan, he will come back broken from the guilt.

Hermione Granger was beside herself with worry. "Would Harry be OK after such a tragic event?" Hermione whispered to herself. Dumbledore had told Ron and her to let the poor boy be, that any efforts to help would end up hurting him more. But would Harry really be able to figure out things himself?" Hermione panicked some more. But "Dumbledore, in the end, was still Dumbledore." Slightly more reassured, Hermione returned to her homework.

Harry stared up at the house that suddenly appeared out of thin air, willing his expression to remain as nonchalant as possible. This was the house Sirius resided in before the veil devoured him, this was the house that imprisoned his Godfather and would soon imprison him. Dumbledore told him that it would be for his own safety, that number twelve, Grimmauld Place was the safest place to be now that the war has officially begun.

Harry entered the house, quickly passed by the dried heads of house elves while sprinting up the stairs and entered the last room in the hallway. This would be his bedroom. Harry laid his belongings on the floor and pulled out a small journal. He knew he had to control his anger, knew he would not be able to think straight and plan his escape if all he could think about was killing Bellatrix Lestrange. So he resigned to this small form of muggle therapy knowing it would help him get his thoughts in order. With that thought in mind, he began to scribble words, and then whole sentences into the journal, filling up its pages like drowned man gasping for air.

He knew he wouldn't be able to share his inner most thoughts with anybody now. His journal, black leather with a small gold lion inscribed in the upper right hand corner, was his one and only confident. Glancing around his room, he knew he wouldn't stay here for too long and so worked up the courage to put his journal away and go into the one room he knew would be tainted with a thick air of sorrow: Sirius' room.

The air was musky with the smell of raw (possibly decaying?) meat. A starved-looking Buckbeak paddling about the room turned eagerly for a second towards Harry, only to look away. Sirius's mirror, still perched on a hearty old desk decorated with red and gold, laid shining in the light. A bed that Sirius never folded, that would now never be touched again. Parts and pieces of motorcycles lying about...Clothes...

Harry turned away.

The rest of the house more-or-less was a shithole. Dust everywhere, the stench of meat, a whiff of hair grease? Kreacher had left with the death of Sirius. The Floo had been shut off by the Ministry, on Dumbledore's wishes. Little to nothing remained of value, all poached by thieves of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix.

"Why am I here," pondered Harry. "I mean, Sirius died and now there's no one… nothing for me. Why am I here? This place reminds me merely of the sins of my past. Why?"

Harry pondered while the grandfather clock pounded onwards in the background.

"Tick"

Dumbledore's Order is here.

Tock

Dumbledore.

"Tick"

Sirius.

"Tock"

Family lost, friends nowhere to be found… for what? What was he going to do with his life? Why was he in this hellhole that just months ago he would have killed to be in? Something he desired? Tools to be gained?

Tick

In the end, Dumbledore was here. Dumbledore. Powerful Dumbledore, that's who he wanted! But why?

"WHY DO I WANT DUMBLEDORE, AFTER ALL HE HAS DONE TO ME?"

The clock ticked away while the boy pondered.

Hours later, one could find Harry curled up in his bed, exanimate, glassy eyes staring in the direction of the ceiling as his mind thought about everyone and everything. It was an information overload and he wished there was a switch that could turn his mind off, but sadly, he didn't have any dreamless sleep potion with him, and was quite frankly, sick of seeing Sirius fall through the veil. So with exhaustion weighing down his movements he slid out of bed and crawled towards his trunk, once again pulling his journal out. He needed to do something. He needed to plan. He needed to get out of here.

Sleep deprivation gnawed at his mind, voices whispered in his ear, but still he persevered. Still he wrote, line by painstaking line, in his journal. On the previous page was his plan of escape. He wrote on the fresh blank page adjacent to it, a simple to do list. He would escape. He would go to Diagon Alley. He would take out enough galleons from Gringotts to buy his own place. And then, he would train himself, mind and body. He couldn't allow himself to be protected any longer. He couldn't allow anyone else to die for him. He needed to be strong enough to protect himself, and he wasn't going to accomplish that in this prison. His hand ached from writing, struggling to write each word. His eyelids drifted downward until a light snore could be heard from the prone figure on the dusty floor.


End file.
